I looked at him, really looked. The tight set of his shoulders, the raw edge in his voice, the restraint in every inch of his body like he was trying not to want too much from me. I had no idea what this was—friendship? Blurring lines of doctor and patient? I had to review the ethics code and handbook. I had to find it immediately. But we weresomething, and I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. “I don’t know,” I said, sighing.
The room felt quieter somehow, even with the muffled sounds of the crowd and Callum’s voice echoing from the other side of the suite. Oliver’s mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something back—but then the suite door slammed, and Jordan yelled something about hot dogs.
We both jumped. He looked down, eyes falling to my hand again, still clutching the neck of the bottle like a lifeline.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Really?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Then come sit with me,” he said. “Please.”
It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a suggestion, really. It was an invitation. And for once, I didn’t want to say no.
I let out a long breath. “Okay.”
He smiled, relief evident on his face, but he didn’t tease me as we headed back toward the seats. He placed his hand on my lower back, the warmth of his palm seeping through my shirt as he guided me back to the group. This felt like a truce of sorts, and while my mind raced with all the reasons this was a terrible idea, my heart felt settled. I liked being around Oliver, and I had no idea what to do about it.I knew better than to trust these feelings. People only saw my profession, never me, but it was nice to feel like I fit in here.
Instead, I focused on the game and tried to have fun—a concept I hadn’t tried in a long time. We joined the group, and Oliver gestured me to sit first, and instead of taking one of the ten empty seats, he sat right next to me, his thigh pressing against mine.
“If they make a playoff run, I’m getting a tattoo, I swear.” Jordan cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered at the hitter up to bat. “Y’all know my Uncle Gio was a die-hard fan, like obsessed and shit? Feels like if the Cubs are gonna win anything big again, this year is the year to honor him.”
“What tattoo would you get?” Ivy asked, sipping her beer as she leaned against Callum. She looked so at ease, not even a little worried about hanging with three of the Rampage players.
If she could hang…. then I could relax too.
“Maybe I’ll get ivy all over my arm,” he said, winking at her.
“Watch it, Mann,” Callum growled, narrowing his eyes. “That was too close to flirting.”
“Knock it off, Callum.” Ivy rolled her eyes but leaned into her husband more. They had a comfort about them that I envied. I had zero clue what it would be like to have someone who saw you, got you, and had your back all the time. I’d never experienced it before, and occasionally my mind would warn me I was getting older. Thirty-two and no partner, no kids, and my clock was ticking, but then I’d tell her to shut the hell up.
I didn’t want kids, and I wanted a career, a legacy over a spouse.I knew what it felt like to have family turn on you, not pick you, so not wanting that life seemed fine for me.
Right then, a Cubs player cracked a triple into the corner, and the crowd roared like thunder. I launched out of my seat, both hands in the air, beer nearly sloshing out of the bottle as I shouted, “Let’s fucking go, Cubbies! Yes! That’s how you run third! Pinch hit Frankie—come on, his splits are garbage against lefties. Don’t do it—don’t pull him—let us feast!”
My entire body vibrated with adrenaline as I leaned toward the field, palms open like I could will the manager to make the call. “Come on, don’t be a little bitch. Let him pitch. Give us the meatball. Give us the fucking meatball!”
It wasn’t until the roar dipped to a lull that I felt the silence behind me. I turned slowly to find five sets of eyes locked on me.
Jordan’s mouth hung open, borderline impressed. Callum was grinning like he’d discovered a new favorite show. Ivy’s brows had risen to her hairline. Even Noah blinked once, then leaned back like he needed a minute to recalibrate. And Oliver—Oliver had his elbow on the back of his seat, chin in his hand, watching me with that quiet, amused look that made my heart skip in the most annoying way.
My face flushed. “Shit. Sorry.”
Jordan let out a laugh and hit my shoulder with the back of his hand. “Doc, who knew you had a mouth like that? Damn. You get this riled up about Rampage?”
“Only when you fumble two drives in a row,” I muttered, setting my beer down and sinking back into my seat.
“Jesus,” Callum said, his eyes wide. “You might be my new favorite person on the Rampage team.”
“I’ve been telling y’all she’s elite,” Ivy chimed in, smirking. “Wait until someone strikes out looking with the bases loaded. She’ll light up the sky.”
“She’s serious,” Oliver said softly, not glancing at the others. Just at me. His voice had that low drawl again, the kind that made it hard to focus on anything but how close he was.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.
Jordan shook his head in wonder. “Alright. That’s it. I’m officially requesting a sideline microphone for Mercer next Sunday. We could publish this shit and go viral.”
“You’re not cleared to handle that kind of power,” Ivy said flatly.
